


aware that he was Nowhere

by myriadThalassas



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Inspired by Poetry, James is only a very brief mention, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadThalassas/pseuds/myriadThalassas
Summary: Always he was aware of what was going to happen.(A trip to the Underworld goes as expected. Thanks and apologies to the late Czeslaw Milosz.)





	aware that he was Nowhere

The wind bit, his exposed knees flaking red. Every breath he took burned his lungs, and every breath he gave billowed in stale-smelling clouds. It fogged up his side of the glass, white coating oilslick black.

For the umpteenth time he grasped the icy handle. Behind him, in the grey, there was the rattle of cars over cobblestones. They were going somewhere, he thought. Moving on. He could, too, if he turned around. It was expected. He was not brave.

(“You’re brave _enough_ ,” he had stated, as if fact. “I think ‘m a good enough judge of character for that.”

Even now, he did not quite believe it. He had many things to hide. Comedians always did. Ignoring it was the mark of the best of them. He knew he was particularly good because he only felt their weight after laughter. No one paid attention, then–except for him.)

A tingle began in his fingertips, spreading throughout his whole hand. He knew the feeling. He would never mistake it, even like the pale shadow it was. But he had lived without humanity for many years. He lived without it now. It was not essential to survival. He could just walk away. No one would blame him. Not even him, now that he was dead.

That was why he could not fail, he supposed.

He pushed open the door and found himself engulfed. There was no colour in these corridors. There was no light, either. It was a labyrinth of mini golf courses, a destiny he had long ago left, but the same shades sat at their posts still.

He did not look at them as he searched for the elevator. He did not dare. He did not need to bother. They did not remember him, and they remembered their work.

He found the lift beside an electronic dinosaur. It was even colder inside. The flames licked at him as he pressed the button. Upon downward movement it crumbled into ash.

He did not know how long it took. One hundred and sixty one was a large number; doubly so in the silence that follows wild applause. All he had to protect him fit into his hand and snaked up to his ears. It was good defense. It reminded him that there was something, before.

The descent stopped. He walked out into a flat. Black screens surrounded him and Persephone, who was watching from his swiveling throne.

He spoke of gambled futures, bright and incorporeal, made concrete when filtered through the lens of a video camera; success that bubbled clear like a freshwater spring over dry soil, sweet with laughter to anyone who chose to drink from it. He recalled his own happiness as more people came, as friends emerged, from places he had once thought mythical when he lived beside the river Tyne; how those places became startlingly real, both when he walked down their busy streets or viewed them from thousands of feet in the air…the meetings, the collaborations, the Discord calls; witticisms contained in two hundred and ten characters, publicly available but only privately understood–football and rose-stained cheeks and the bright lights of New York City.

“Huh. Dunno if you really loved him,” the goddess began. With a pale hand he pushed from his eyes a fringe of brown hair. “Still, you’re here and not completely insane yet, so that should count for something. I’ll give you back the big-eared nonce permanently if you don’t talk to him or turn around until you’re both out of here.”

He nodded.

“Great.” The chair turned to the left. “Bring him out!”

From the left came bearded Hermes. Behind him was someone who was not Stephen. The man’s white face was tinged grey. His hair was dull. He was not smiling.

(He wanted to say something. Do something. Anything, as long as it would make him laugh.)

He turned around, began to walk. He took ten steps before he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped. So did they, and the echo afterwards.

The lift was no longer there. In its place was a doorway and steps outlined in purple neon. They were uncountable in the darkness.

He stood in front of the stairs. There was deep silence. Rigidly, he began to climb.

He had no more shield. Maybe the battery had run out. Maybe he had dropped it. Maybe he had purposely left it behind. For sure it was no longer with him. All he had now was himself: his steps, his hope. And he was out of practice.

(Sometimes in that half-wakeful state he was aware of the cotton in his ears, the stinging in his eyes. Sometimes he was aware of abrupt closeness or distance. Always he was aware of what was going to happen.)

Light filtered through the opening so unlike the glow of a computer screen. It happened in sequence, like a storyboard or a script: he stepped out, turned his head, saw no one.

He squinted up. The sun was ruddy, almost too ruddy for England. It was set in a blue sky. Around it were great tufts of white clouds.

The grass rustled with the breeze. _He’s gone_ , they cried. _He’s gone! What will you do? How will you live?_

For a moment, he was more than speechless: he was stone. All about him the world shouted their lament, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it, to help it. He had no platform to soothe, no phone to commentate. His throat was too tight for even the shittiest CPM joke. It was horrible. He was horrible. Everything was horrible–

The wind blew again. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. And as he inhaled, he tasted vodka lime soda.

(“Christ, you two, get a room!”

Stephen’d just grinned, lips bruised red, hand still warm on his shoulder. “Cheers, mate.”)

He laughed so hard he fell to his knees, then the ground.

He was tingling in this heat, Will mused as he drifted off, instead of sweating. The Underworld was colder than he’d thought.

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfiction in forever and it's RPF. I don't know how to feel.


End file.
